


Passing the Time

by squire



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Erebor Never Fell, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, Fluff, Humour, M/M, travelling, tumblr ficlets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-01 03:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5190176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squire/pseuds/squire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collections of ficlets I wrote on my Tumblr. Each chapter is a stand-alone. </p><p>Crack, humour, fluff, and silliness. </p><p>Everything Bagginshield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Plant your... what??

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta read. English is not my native language. You're welcome to my learning:)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this one: magical babies, questionable origins of Hobbits, crack.

“I picked it up in Béorn’s garden,” Bilbo said, eyes drinking in the sight of Thorin’s face, temporarily cleared from the golden shadow of paranoia. The King had his eyes glued on the acorn on the Hobbit’s palm asif it was the most wonderful thing he ever saw. Well, Bilbo thought, that was only right. It was a very nice seed, very appropriate, with Thorin being Oakenshield and Bilbo coming from an old family of Oaks, despite being an Ash himself (and by heaven, didn’t his mother tease his father for ages about his unpredictable timing). There were always Oaks living under the Hill, which was only understandable with that huge, centuries old oak tree growing on top of it. Always an acorn or two to be found wherever you happened to sit down. Or lie down. 

All things considered, it was a very nice seed indeed, and Bilbo was pleased by the look of adoration his proposition brought on. The best reaction from a father-to-be he could hope for. For a while, he thought he was being presumptous, with the Dragon and everything - not exactly the best of times to think about starting a family. But he picked up the acorn nonetheless. Just in case. 

Yes, Bilbo had some very nice memories of his time in Béorn’s garden under the giant oak tree.  

 

*

 

Thorin lay on the ice, on his battered face an expression as beatific as only a truly life-threatening blood loss can bring, and Bilbo was never more furious with him. So furious that he couldn’t find the words to yell for a time. 

“Farewell, Master Burglar…” Thorin breathed. “Go back to your books… and your armchair… plant your trees… watch them grow….”

Bilbo smiled shakily. And then frowned. 

“What?”

“If more people valued…” Thorin’s smile faltered. “What ‘what’?”

“What trees are you talking about?”

The King looked for a moment genuinely sad for being robbed of his profoundly emotional speech in his dying moment. 

“That acorn… you wanted to plant it in your garden.”

Bilbo’s face cleared for a second and then he frowned even more furiously. 

“You idiotic Dwarf, why would I want to wreck my little garden with such a monster of a grown oak tree?”

Bilbo sat back on his heels, shaking his head. For Thorin’s part, it seemed that even his bleeding stopped for a while with all that confusion. It could be that merciless determination with which Bilbo pressed a hand on his wound.

“Stupid, ignorant, empty-headed Dwarves!” Bilbo ranted. “Are you trying to tell me you seriously have no idea where little Hobbits come from?”

“Little… Hobbits??”

Bilbo leaned back down to him and began to enunciate very carefully. 

“When a pair of Hobbits want children, they go out, preferably somewhere private, have a merry time together, and then they pick up whatever seed they lay on during…. that time, and when they plant it, Yavanna blesses it and it grows into a child. I picked that acorn on the place we… you know! In Béorn’s garden! I thought, with Dwarves coming from stone, you would understand!”

“We don’t actually come from stone,” Thorin said, apparently too bewildered to say anything else.

“You don’t?” Bilbo looked taken aback. “Then how…? You know, I don’t want to know. Not really, Not ever. We are going to do this the Hobbit way. So don’t you dare to die, Thorin, because I certainly don’t want to take care of our child alone.”

And for the first time in his life (and certainly not for the last), the King obeyed his Burglar. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Gardening by miscellea, a wonderful funny and feels-y fic that also features Inexplicable Babies.


	2. Royal Mail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this one: Modern AU, first meeting, awkward flirting.

“The tea bottle is in the stroller side pocket.”

“Yes, Prim.”

“But he won’t be thirsty unless he whines you into buying him a lollipop. Again.”

“There’s a reason I’m his favourite uncle, Prim,” Bilbo grinned. 

“If you weren’t holed up in Oxford all the time, you wouldn’t need to bribe your nephews with sweets,” Prim retorted.

“I like Oxford,” Bilbo muttered. Visiting the little town where he was born and raised and where almost everyone was to some degree related to him was a thing Bilbo usually post-poned all the way he could.  

Primula put a spare hankie in Bilbo’s jacket pocket - her favourite cousin was in the bad habit of leaving home without one - and tucked Frodo’s shirt inside the hem of his trousers. 

“He likes going to the market. You can kill a good half an hour just by strolling among the stalls.”

“Whatever am I to get you on the market, Frodo?” Bilbo ruffled the boy’s hair. “Do you like carrots? Babies eat carrots, right?” he looked up to Primula, who snorted. 

“Frodo’s two year old, not four months. And he’s not a pony. Get him the lollipop and out with you. I want my coffee and my Eastenders.”

 

*

 

With the appartment door firmly closed in their faces, Bilbo smiled down on Frodo, hoisted him up on one arm and ran down the stairs. “Wait here,” he instructed the boy in the hallway and went back for the stroller. 

As he was coming down the flight of stairs the second time, he noticed a figure outside behind the glass-paneled door, standing at an angle and apparently studying the doorbell panel. Bilbo took one look at the man’s profile and nearly tripped over the stroller in his arms. 

Even through the dirty glass, the man was gorgeous. At least several sexy inches above six feet, dark mane of hair bound in a loose ponytail, and a regal nose above a closely shorn beard. Bilbo set the stroller down and took a couple of steps closer. Now he could see that the man was holding two parcels, with a clipboard balanced on top, and was frowning at the nameplates by the doorbells as if they personally offended him. 

Bilbo had the door opened before his brain could come up with something even remotely intelligent. 

“Um, hello. Are these perhaps for the Baggins family?” he spoke up behind the postman’s back. 

Blue eyes shadowed by an intimidating frown ran up and down Bilbo’s cheerfully helpful face. 

“Hello, and no, they aren’t. One for the Proudfoots and the other…” the postman checked with the clipboard… “for the Bracegirdles.”

Bilbo noticed the hint of broad chest partially obscured by the parcels and tried very hard not to break eye contact. 

“Mister Proudfoot had just left for the market,” he said. “And miss Bracegirdle would be at work. You could leave the parcels with me - I could take them up, I mean, they are neighbours…” Bilbo cringed internally. He was probably coming across a bit too eager. It’s been so long he’d been out and looking that he had lost his hang on flirting. 

“The one for Miss Bracegirdle needs to be signed for,” the postman interrupted his babbling. 

“Oh, what a pity.” It wasn’t a pity at all, Bilbo thought privately. Love thy neighbour and all that but he didn’t wish to inflict Lobelia demanding her parcel on poor Prim who knows how late in the evening. 

“Then why she keeps ordering things to be delivered by post when she’s never at home during delivery hours,” the postman growled, obviously frustrated. 

“Yes, because God forbid that the Royal Mail would deliver at hours actually convenient for the working class people,” Bilbo laughed, joking at the common pet peeve of the everyday life. 

The postman hadn’t laughed. If anything, his scowl even deepened. “I am working class, and these are my working hours” he pointed out and shoved the clipboard in Bilbo’s face. 

“Sign here, if you want to take the Proudfoot’s one,” he ordered. “Oh, hello there, little tyke.” His dark face immediately softened when he caught sight of Frod’s curls peeking from behind Bilbo’s knees. 

“Bee-bo!”

“Almost done, sweetie,” Bilbo soothed him. “Just helping out Mister Postman here, see?”

“Much appreciated,” the postman muttered, somewhat mellowed by now. He slipped a ‘Something For You’ notice with the proper box checked into Mr. Proudfoot’s mailbox and took the clipboard back. 

“Have a nice day,” he nodded and turned to leave.

Bilbo couldn’t help himself: “Already have!” he called after the postman cheekily. 

He was busy strapping Frodo into the stroller when he heard the stomping footfalls and a tall shadow fell over him again. 

“Look,” the postman said, holding up the signed form - where Bilbo used up all space in the box by leaving not only his signature but also his phone number - like an accusation. 

“I’m used to be  _hit on_ ,” he spat the words, “by students, bored housewives, by the odd widow, whatever. But a  _father of a family_ , that’s…! Mister Baggins, your wife is a sweet and lovely woman, and if–”

“Bee-bo!” Frodo cried, distressed by the shouting.

“Drogo Baggins is the proud father of this lovely boy you’ve just made cry,” Bilbo said, torn between the need to reprimand and the urge to have a hearty laugh. “My name’s Bilbo, Bilbo Baggins. I’m their cousin.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.” 

The postman stared a moment, rooted into the pavement, and then - to Bilbo’s greatest delight - he blushed. 

“Well, then, have a nice day.”

Bilbo nodded, carefully keeping the corners of his mouth in check. Watching the postman go was a bit disappointing but the view on his arse was making at least something up to it. 

“Oh, I just remembered.”

Bilbo quickly transferred his eyes back up to find the man’s uncertain smile back on him. 

“There’s an after hours delivery service, available on demand. It’s charged extra. In case you ever needed it.”

“Oh.” It was Bilbo’s turn to be a bit at loss for words. This had to be the silliest pick-up like he ever heard. And he thought he’d been out of practice. 

“Okay,” he smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

*

 

An hour later Bilbo came back to the flat with Frodo asleep on the stroller and a dreamy look still glued to his face. 

“I take it you’ve met our new postman,” Primula grinned at him and - no, Bilbo definitely didn’t imagine it - rubbed her hands together in satisfaction. 

“Prim!” he exclaimed. 

She shrugged, unrepentant. “Never be it said I don’t know your type, cousin. And you’ve been buried in that dusty books of yours for far too long.”

Later that night, Bilbo opened his laptop and went browsing. Primula was right. It’s been ages since he last ordered a new book on Amazon. 


	3. Once Upon a Time There Was a King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this one: Erebor Never Fell, Shire is close to Erebor AU.

_Chronicle of Erebor, as put down by Ori the Scribe_

It happened in the second year of the rule of King Thorin over Erebor, that the nobles grew displeased with their liege’s lack of spouse. For though the King was wise, just, and beloved by his people, he did not seek for companionship amongst his subjects. The seat of Consort at the side of the Throne remained empty, drawing the covetous eyes of the nobles who sought to gain favours with the King.

They sent the most silver-tongued advisor among them to approach him.

“My liege,” said the advisor. “You ought to marry, for the sake of the Kingdom.”

“Many of our people choose not to marry in their life,” replied the King. “Why should I not remain wed to my Kingdom?”

“Your line is at stake, Sire,” said the advisor.

“My line is secure in the lives of my sister-sons,” said the King.

“One of them pledged himself to the daughter of the King of Dale, and the other is courting the emissary of Mirkwood. While the strengthening of our diplomatic ties is commendable, the Mountain and the people in it should be the first thing on the mind of a Consort,” said the advisor, as politely as he could.

“Those are wise words,” said the King. “But how I am to find one that I could trust with my heart? My days and nights are devoted to the Mountain.”

“You can trust the advice of your Council,” said the advisor. “Of the venerable families of old, loyal to the Crown and deserving of your regard, all the daughters or sons are more than suitable.”

The King thought deeply on the matter.

“I fear, friend, that should I choose either one, it will always sow jealousy and envy among the others,” said he at last. “To avoid possible conflict of interests, I shall entrust my choice to the hands of our Maker, Mahal, and his wife Yavanna that blesses matrimony.”

The advisor did not have words prepared for this. “How then, pray, would you go about learning our Maker’s intentions?”

“I shall give you my white war ram,” decided the King. “It shall be set loose by the Gates of Erebor, and you shall follow it at a distance. None shall try to stop or steer it. Where the ram stops to graze, of that land the owner I shall marry, or one of their family if they be wed already.”

The advisor bowed, secreting his pleased smile. For much of the land around the Mountain was in possession of the noble families, yielding crop for Erebor’s use. The fields and orchards were tilled by the small folk called Hobbits living in the shadow of the Mountain. Dwarves had little care for things that couldn’t be found deep underground but they would pay handsomely the Hobbits to plough and weed for them, as the little folk seemed to work magic with all things green and growing.

And so the Council gathered at the Gates, the clerics bestowing prayers upon the white ram, the King’s favourite, and they let it loose.

The ram trotted leisurely and the Council followed it with great curiosity.

Firstly, the ram wandered to the corn fields spreading far and wide on the gentle slopes along the River Running, the fresh green shoots tender and sweet, poking shyly from the ground on a fine spring day. The owner of the fields, a Dwarf lord named Gráin, smiled winningly, for he had a daughter, as sweet and docile as the young sprouts. But the ram passed by without stopping, ignoring the offering of the pasture.

Secondly, the ram made for the fields of sweet beet belonging to the Dwarf lord named Zhugár. The tops of the plants, rich and succulent, filled the air with scent so alluring that several mounts of the Council wandered off to the field and could not be persuaded to move any further. Lord Zhugár almost saw himself the father-in-law to the King, but the King’s ram did not stop there.

Thirdly, the ram’s meandering path led him to the apple orchard belonging to a Dwarf lord named Jónagold. The bright green leaves, still soft and tender as they just burst from the buds, clung to the delicate apple tree branches. The Dwarves eyed Jónagold with envy, for he was still young and unattached. But the ram did not stop to munch at the twigs. Further and further it went, straying out of the lands owned by the Dwarves.

At last, the ram slowed its trot before a lovely little garden in front of a strange house that seemed to be dug into the hillside. The ram stopped, bowed its head and began to nibble on–

“Oi! These are my prize-winning tomatoes!!”

 

*

 

“I can’t believe they bought it,” Bilbo Baggins snorted and took off his shining new Consort’s coronet, laying it down on a table in the King’s quarters.

“Mahal’s will and Yavanna’s blessing,” King Thorin replied, shedding his great fur coat onto a chair. “I say those greedy meddlers had it coming.”

They both recalled the horrified faces of the Council gathered around Bilbo’s hobbit-hole and burst out in giggles.

“Honestly,” Bilbo sighed and ruffled the hair of his secret lover of the past two years, now his lawful husband. “Trusting your fate in the hooves of that wicked beast with the most finicky tongue I ever saw–”

“There was no need to worry,” Thorin said, eyes gleaming with mirth. “Ever since my ram stumbled across your garden all those years ago, it would not forget where your house stood, however sneaky and confusing path I chose to get there to keep us secret.”

“I could say that those paths were confusing not by your choosing but simply because you were holding onto the reins,” Bilbo teased. “I’m glad at least your ram didn’t get lost on the way to my home. The scoundrel seems to like me. Or my tomatoes.”

“My Hobbit,” the King laughed. “Do not worry. The only being beneath this Mountain who adores you more than my ram is me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the myth of Duchess Libuše from the Chronica Boëmorum written by Cosmas of Prague, around 1125. Guys, this is my country’s fictional history.


	4. Thumb Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this one: Modern AU, Thorin is Icelandic, Bilbo is a hitchhiker.

Bilbo pulled the hood of his windproof jacket tighter over his head and blinked when it plastered his fringe against his forehead, the hair soaked with the persistent drizzle dripping rainwater right into his eyes. Rolling his aching shoulders, he adjusted the straps of his backpack, looking morosely at a lone sheep grazing behind the fence running along the road. The sheep looked back just as bleakly and bleated.

Another car, packed full to bursting, passed him by, speeding in the direction where Bilbo came from. Not a single one going in the direction he needed for the last four hours.

Blast and botheration.

He was having a blast in Akureyri, thank you very much, he was totally enjoying himself in the merry Akureyri with her street musicians and little cafés and that bloody brilliant  _sundlaug_  with its wonderful warm pools and even better hot tubes, when he received a text from his tourist agency:

_We regret to inform you that the airline company operating your return flight had declared bankruptcy. Please collect your new flight tickets at FÍ headquarters, Mörkinn 6, Reykjavík, by this Friday at the latest. Otherwise we cannot ensure the re-booking of your return flight._

That was on Thursday evening. Bilbo grumpily packed his things on Friday morning and set out on the main road to thumb a lift to Reykjavík. It was about 380 km, a tedious trip to make just for formality’s sake and not because of the sights, but he’d hitch-hiked worse.

Four and a half hours later, he was still rooting there.

A farmer took him some half an hour ride along the way but then he turned his car off the main road onto his farm and left Bilbo in the middle of nowhere. Too far to go back to Akureyri and get a seat on the coach. Bilbo slowly plodded in the midst of the most boring landscape imaginable - and up to now, he wouldn’t have believed such a place existed on Iceland - and cursed his luck. Every single car passing him heading for Akureyri hadn’t a place to spare and not a wheel was rolling to Reykjavík today.

He was going to be stranded on Iceland. On this wet, cold, windy, sheep-ridden, godforsaken island where nobody seemed to have the common knowledge that to the rest of the world came naturally and that it was  _decent_  to pull over when you saw someone with a thumb up–

“You getting in anytime today?”

Bilbo blinked the raindrops out of his eyes to realise that, by some miracle, a car had stopped for him. The door of the passenger seat were held open, the driver leaning across the gear lever, and treating Bilbo to a distinctly unimpressed scowl.

“Oh thank you, thanks heaven,” he breathed, shouldering off his pack and getting into the car sooner than the dark-browed angel could abandon the charitable streak of his mind. With his wet pack cramped between his knees and - oh crumpets - and actual  _steam_  rising from his clothing in the blissful warmth of the car, Bilbo rubbed his wet nose and asked:

“Are you by any chance going to Reykjavík?”

“Not your luck today, I’m afraid,” the man said. It didn’t sound as if he was truly regretful, or even sympathetic. If anything, it sounded like he was thinking Bilbo a bit of a fool.

“I have business in Borgarnes. I can drop you off there. You will have more chance to get a lift from there than from here. Though not much, I should guess.”

Oh. Bilbo mentally checked the vague layout of west coast in his head. Borgarnes was more than half the way there. Not ideal, but definitely helping.

“What’s the matter with everyone going north today?” he complained. That earned him another unimpressed look.

“Monday is bank holiday,” the driver informed him. “And there is a big music festival in Akureyri this week-end. Everyone in the country is taking Friday off and going there. Reykjavík’s going to be empty this weekend.”

“Which makes me literally the only person on this entire island wanting to get there,” Bilbo groaned, thumping his head on the headrest and closing his eyes. A rather loud throat clearing made him open them again. The driver was glaring daggers at him and Bilbo’s head shot up as he guiltily realised that the driver probably didn’t want him to soak the entire upholstery with his wet hair. It was quite a nice car, as he noticed now. Spacious. Comfy. Classy.

After a while, he dared to spare a few tentative glances to his saviour. The driver was a man of impressive built, with a long dark hair pulled up in a man bun and a closely shorn beard framing a face that Bilbo would describe at once as handsome  _and_  forbidding. It was a strange combination of severe eyebrows and gentle mouth, of a sharp nose and soulful blue eyes. Oh God, Bilbo groaned, this time mentally. Get a grip, Baggins. Glowering strangers don’t have  _soulful_  eyes.

“So you do this a lot,” the man remarked after some minutes of silent driving. “Hitchhiking on Iceland.”

Bilbo grinned wryly. “Yeah, I’ve been warned. Not a cultural thing around here, apparently. I’ve had days where I would stand by the road for hours trying to wave down a car and people passing by would wave cheerfully back, thinking I was saying Hello. But I’ve been mostly lucky.”

“Yes?”

Bilbo actually loved this. He’d heard stories - about the one guy who hitchhiked to Askja and then spent three days starving in wilderness because nobody with a car was feeling like braving the inland roads - but he kept mostly to the main road. And up close, the people of Iceland had been very kind, passably fluent in English, incredibly chatty, and endearingly proud of their country. Bilbo’s string of hikes have been quite the characters.

“The first one ever who stopped for me here was an American student. After that, the spell broke, but it’s true that it’s mostly tourists like me who are likely to take me in. Once I got a Frenchman with a caravan. Once a pastor. He decided to show me the sights and took the road across the mountains just because the landscape was nicer there. I know that love thy neighbour and all that but he actually had to wash his car at a gas station when we got to Egilsstaðir because of all that mud. And that guy who took me to Akureyri simply wouldn’t stop talking about cars. His first car was a Skoda of all things. And once I travelled about hundred kilometres with a dog licking the back of my neck the whole time. So yes, I’m mostly lucky.”  

“Looks like you should get yourself a proper towel,” the driver said evenly, eyes fixed on the road. Bilbo blinked.

“Did you just…?”

From the faint twitching of that otherwise impassive mouth Bilbo concluded that yes indeed, his grumpy saviour just referenced Douglas Adams.

“So,” the driver said after a while of what to Bilbo felt like silent evaluation. “How do you like Iceland?”

Bilbo smiled. And took a deep breath.

 

*

 

“…. so first of all I decided to tackle the Laugavegurinn, of course, only in reverse, so I started at Skógar. Little did I know. I was ridiculously unprepared for the terrain and weren’t it for an emergency shelter in that pass I could have died there. Well, I probably wouldn’t have, but I thought I was going to. But, oh God, the  _mountains._  When I finally got to Þórsmörk I looked back at the glaciers glittering in the sun and I thought wow, I crossed that, I’m no more a useless clot who wouldn’t survive in the wild, I crossed  _that_  and survived. After that, I stopped doubting myself. Then, on the trek to Emstrur, there were little flowers in the black volcanic desert, so sturdy and colourful, I could spend a lifetime there making macro shots of just them. And seeing Hrafntinnusker looming close, with those pieces of obsidian littered everywhere and shining in the sun like mountain of diamond, I’ve never seen anything more beautiful. Well, until I climbed down to Landmannalaugar of course. Moss green and sulphuric yellow and iron red and honest-to-God  _pink_  and all shades of blue rock and black lava and God, have you ever been to that hot spring there?”

The driver shook his head, a something like amused smile quirking his thin lips. “No, I haven’t.”

“The best thing after four day trek you can imagine,” Bilbo insisted. “And then…”

Kilometres flew by as Bilbo poured his enthusiasm over Iceland out of him, recounting every memorable place he’d seen so far, his tongue stumbling over the words in a manner that made his listener’s shoulders shake with concealed laughter. (“Oh come on, you try to say Jökulsárgljúfur without a glitch.”) Some time along the way, the driver produced a bag of something that looked like chips and tossed it into Bilbo’s lap in lieu of offering.

“Dried fish,” he explained in his characteristic curt manner when Bilbo shot him a questioning look. “Try it, it’s good.”

Bilbo put one piece in his mouth and chewed. It really wasn’t bad. Only… tough. After ten minutes of valiant chewing on that one piece a thought occurred to him that this might have been a particularly ingenious way to make him shut up.

“I’m boring you,” he said, when he finally swallowed. It was true he was probably being ridiculous. Describing the beauty of Iceland to a native Icelander.

“No, you’re not,” the driver replied, sparing him a single look before riveting his attention back to the road. “It’s actually nice to hear someone so… happy to be here.”

“Oh.” Bilbo didn’t know what to say to that. The driver run a hand over his face and sighed.

“I’m buried in work most of the time. I dropped out of Uni when my father died to take over his company and since then… I sometimes wish I could take a holiday and travel, a bit. See all that you’ve seen… to take the time to see it. Sometimes I feel like I am exiled in my own country,” he admitted in a low voice.

Bilbo looked ahead for a while. “I’ve never travelled before,” he said at last. “I grew up in Oxfordshire, my parents ran a grocery shop there and I never left my village. But then my parents… well, they left me some money and I thought I was going to rot there so… I applied for the university in Prague. It’s a nice city, sort of otherworldly and homely at once, but… you know. So on the summer break I bought the first low cost tickets to the most adventurous location I could think of and here I am.”

“Here you are,” the driver agreed softly. “I’m Thorin, by the way. Thorin Durinson.” He extended a hand, the angle awkward between the front seats of a car, and Bilbo shook it.

“Pleasure to meet you, Thorin.” He would have felt awkward about the first name basis if he wasn’t already accustomed to how Icelandic names worked. They had the bloody phone book organised by given names, for God’s sake. “I’m Bilbo Baggins.”

 

*

 

The closer to Borgarnes they were, the more anxious Thorin seemed to get.

“How are you going to get to Reykjavík from here?”

“Dunno,” Bilbo shrugged. “Going to try my luck, I guess.”

“It won’t be any better here than where I picked you up,” Thorin muttered.

“I’ll manage,” Bilbo feigned nonchalance. It was true that the odds of getting to the FÍ in Reykjavík in time were growing thin. “It’s not like you’re responsible for my fate, anyway.”

Thorin frowned and then checked his watch.

“You know what? I have to attend a meeting here but I can wrap it up in two hours. If you’ll be still on the main road by then, I can give you a lift all the way to Reykjavík.”

Bilbo felt his heart flutter and kicked himself mentally. “If that’s where you’re going…” he agreed cautiously.

“It is,” Thorin said quickly. “It really is.”

 

*

 

Thorin had been right, Bilbo thought sourly. The hitch-hiking situation in Borgarnes was just as hopeless as it was in Akureyri. Two hours were closing in and his arm ached from holding a thumb up, but nobody was stopping for him.

Until a familiar car pulled over and when Bilbo leaned down to peer through the car window, he was treated to a smile like a sunray bursting through the storm-heavy clouds. His treacherous heart gave another flutter and Bilbo cursed under his breath. He was never going to see this man again after he dropped Bilbo off in Reykjavík. Blast and botheration, indeed.

 

*

 

“And you have no one to share in your adventure? Some friends? Family?”

Bilbo chuckled. “My friends would’ve never believed me if I told them what I was up to. I have a reputation of a bookworm, I’m afraid. And as to my family… I’m an only child. I have quite an unhealthy number of aunts and uncles but they’re more keen on getting me to marry and settle down than on adventures.”

“Not everyone’s the family type,” Thorin nodded thoughtfully.

“I think I would be, you know,” Bilbo mused. “But I just never fancied any of the girls they kept pushing onto me.” He blushed slightly but carried on: “Family doesn’t sound so bad but I’ve never met the right guy, I guess.”

Thorin appeared to find the steering wheel the most fascinating object for miles round and Bilbo cringed. Coming out to strangers, what had possessed him? His gaze wandered onto the dashboard where he noticed a photo tucked behind the sunglasses holder. Two boys, school age, one blonde, the other’s dark hair of the same shade like Thorin, grinning into the camera. Of course. The handsome ones were always taken.

“Cool kids,” he nodded to the photo when he noticed Thorin following the direction of his gaze.

“My nephews,” Thorin replied. Bilbo willed his heart from fluttering again. “About as close to my own kids as I am ever going to get,” Thorin added.

“Why?” It escaped Bilbo before he could check himself.

“Well, I could always adopt, the world’s much better nowadays than it used to be, I mean, our former PM sort of set the example when she married her girlfriend as soon as she could,” Thorin explained with an air of matter-of-factness that made Bilbo blush even more, “but so far I haven’t found the right guy, as you put it, either.”

Bilbo fished in the half-eaten bag of dried fish and bit into a piece to prevent himself of saying something he would regret for the rest of the ride.

 

*

 

The road signs announced the vicinity of Akranes and Thorin turned to Bilbo with a wicked grin. “How deep underwater have you ever been?”

“What?” Bilbo sat up straight in alarm. “I’m afraid I don’t swim. Are we going to board a ferry? Oh gosh. I hate sea.”

“Don’t fret,” Thorin laughed. “We’re going under the fjord, through a tunnel.” With that, he slowed down at a toll gate and rolled down the window to hand out some banknotes.

“Tunnel?” Bilbo squeaked.

“165 metres below sea level at the deepest point,” Thorin said with relish. “Over 3,5 kilometres under the seabed. You’re gonna like it.”

“Are you a gnome that you’re so fond of being underground?” Bilbo grumbled, eyes drawn to the digital altimeter on the car dashboard and to the fact that it was slowly descending into negative values. Thorin laughed.

“I studied civil engineering,” he said. “I miss it, sometimes.”

“At least let me pay half the toll,” Bilbo remembered his good manners. “That was one thousand krónar, don’t think I didn’t notice–”

“Nonsense,” Thorin waved him off. “You’re my guest.”

 

*

 

Thorin agreed to drop Bilbo off at the camping site. In the end, Bilbo could get to Mörkinn with time to spare.

“So that’s it,” Bilbo said, fingers restless on the straps of his backpack when Thorin turned off the engine. “Thank you again, Thorin, you’re a lifesaver.”

“It’s been my pleasure,” Thorin said, and Bilbo was probably imagining it but there was no longer any trace of his dry humour in that deep voice. “I’m glad I could help.”

“Help?” Bilbo laughed weakly. “I’d be pretty lost without you, Thorin. You saw the road today. I was desperate. When you pulled over the first time, I could’ve kissed you…”

Bilbo’s brain caught up with what he was saying and he clamped a hand over his mouth in horror. “Not like that - I mean -” he stammered. He felt his cheeks heating up. Oh great. Time to leave this car and possibly this island altogether.

A hand on his arm stopped him.

“Truly not?” Thorin asked, suddenly very close. “Because we could. I’d like to.”

Bilbo never made it to the FÍ office that day. But the truth was, he didn’t mind.

 

*

 

“My God what was that?” Bilbo asked when he got his breath back and stopped shuddering. The ground beneath his back, under the layers of his bedroll and camping mat and tent groundsheet, still thrummed witch faint tremors. Above him, Thorin blinked sweat out of his eyes and shot him an alarmed look.

“Are you serious? Please don’t tell me that was your first orgasm.”

“Idiot,” Bilbo snorted and swatted Thorin’s naked shoulder. “I mean right now, didn’t you feel it? The bloody ground shook!”

“Oh, that.” Thorin tossed the mane of his hair over his shoulder and plopped down next to Bilbo in the tiny space of their tent. “Well, we’re in Þingvellir. On the Atlantic rift. Two continental desks at constant motion. There is faint seismic activity registered several times a day.”

“Are you telling me that we just fucked through an earthquake? Wow.”

“Either that,” Thorin grinned, “or I just gave you a literal–”

“Thorin, God help me if you make that pun–”

“–ground–”

“I swear I will tickle you to death–”

“–shattering–”

“I’ll  _end_  you–”

“–experience.”

Bilbo decided that summer nights on Iceland weren’t anywhere close to long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for the record, about 90% of this story is reality-based. I spent 4 weeks in summer of 2004 hitchhiking all around Iceland, and the people Bilbo recounts are those incredible and amazing people that I had met. I was fed dried fish and taken through the tunnel under the sea and I felt the earth quake when I slept in my tent on the plane of Althing. The only drawback is that I never met Thorin there:)


End file.
